saw no confession in the fact that everybody was astonished at what she
had done; she was astonished herself. "I wasn't afraid!" she said,
wonderingly.

"It was because you liked Maurice more than you were scared," Edith
said; she offered this explanation the day that Maurice had been allowed
to come across the hall, rather shakily, to adore his wife.

His first sight of her was a great shock.... The strain of that terrible
night had blanched and withered her face; there were lines on her
forehead that never left it.

Edith, sneaking in behind him, said under her breath: "Goodness! Don't
she look old!"

She did. But as Maurice fell on his knees beside her, it seemed as if
she drank youth from his lips. Under his kisses her worn face bloomed
with joy.

"It was nothing--nothing," she insisted, stroking his thick hair with
her trembling hand, and trying to silence his words of wondering
worship.

"I was not worthy of it.... To think that you--" He hid his face on her
shoulder.

Afterward, when he went back to his own room, she lay, smiling
tranquilly to herself; her look was the look one sees on the face of a
woman who, in that pallid hour after the supreme achievement of birth,
has looked upon her child. She was entirely happy. From the open door of